


Why don't you close your eyes and reinvent me

by elanorelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 08:10:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elanorelle/pseuds/elanorelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So he doesn't think, because either way, he's fucking a dead girl or he's fucking a demon, and a line's been crossed, no matter what she says.</p><p>(Episode tag 4x09. Originally posted to LJ 16/11/2008.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why don't you close your eyes and reinvent me

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for implied Sam/Dean, though nothing explicit. Title from "Mezzanine" by Massive Attack.

When it starts; when Sam kisses her and pulls her up into his lap and shoves at her clothes so that he can fuck her like he knows he's going to; when the body's soft and warm just like she said, and he can't decide if that's better or worse than the alternative; when it's already gone too far, that's when he realises how much he wants what she's offering, though it makes him sick to even think it.

So he doesn't think, because either way, he's fucking a dead girl or he's fucking a demon, and a line's been crossed, no matter what she says, so he just. Doesn't.

Instead he scrunches up his eyes against the way she's looking at him, and leans his head back against the sofa, reaches his hand down between them to touch her. She bucks against his fingers and moans, high and breathy, and when she leans forward against his chest, he buries his face in her neck and breathes deep.

It's a mistake, because her skin smells like sweat and blood and freshly dug earth—like death and the hunt and everything Sam's known since he was old enough to know anything, and it hurts. He licks into her mouth instead, but there she tastes of salt and liquor and the smoke from the fire, and that's just as bad. His hands are shaking and his throat feels like its closing up and he wants this to be over even as it's only just begun.

It's happened like this before.

There was a girl, right back at the beginning in that first week after he'd left Bobby's, when he doesn't remember much of how he even got from one place to another, and what he can recall is mostly blurred through the bottom of a bottle.

He doesn't remember her name (if he even knew it then) or where he met her, isn't sure how he got her to go back to the motel with him, considering the state he was in. But he remembers that the reason he picked her up was because she didn't look like anyone. Not Jess, or Madison, or Ruby as she'd looked before, or Bela. She wore biker boots and a leather jacket and a man's flannel shirt, but her eyes were blue not hazel and when Sam looked at her he didn't see anybody else staring back at him.

He kissed her when she asked him what was wrong and he realised he'd been staring; her lips were soft and pliant under his, and she fit against him like she was meant to.

But then she opened her mouth just enough that he could slide his tongue inside, where she tasted like whiskey and not enough like cigarettes, and the tang of it hit the back of his throat like something sharp and sour. Then she ran her hands up under his t-shirt, and they were rough and calloused against the smooth skin of his belly, or maybe he just thought they were, but either way suddenly everything was all wrong and too familiar and Sam couldn't breathe through it.

He didn't realise the hand he had in her hair had gotten too tight until she bit down on his bottom lip hard enough for him to taste copper, and when he pulled away she slapped him round the face and left without a word.

Ruby doesn't slap him when he pulls her hair too tight. Or when he leaves teeth marks on her shoulder that spot with red when he pulls back, or when he grips the soft skin of her thighs hard enough to bruise.

He wonders if the marks he's left will fade, or if she'll walk the body around looking just like this until the day she dumps it somewhere to rot.

He stops thinking again when she reaches down to wrap one hand, small and soft, around his cock. She jerks him, hard and slow and a little rough; it's exactly how he likes it and he wonders how she knows that.

It isn't until she starts kissing down his chest that he realises where this is going. Or rather, where it _isn't_ going because he doesn't want that; not now, not with her, and so he pulls her up by the hair (too rough, he knows it's too rough, but she doesn't make a sound, doesn't even flinch) until they're face to face again, growls out a _No_. He doesn't recognise his own voice: he thinks maybe that's a good thing.

Ruby leans back a little, just to look at him. That's not what he wants either, and so he grabs her hips with one hand and with the other he pushes two fingers up inside the slick heat of her ( _someone else's_ ) body. She arches her back and cants her hips towards him, and there's only one thing that can happen now.

He thinks maybe if he leaves it long enough she'll ask him to do it; tell him to, even. For a second he wants that; wants her to be the one, wants to be able to put this on her later, but he knows it won't change anything. There's no turning back from this.

In the end it's both of them together—him surging up while she sinks down—and when he's all the way in she's tight and hot and so fucking good and the only thing he wants more than this is not to want it at all.

She rocks a little in his lap, and that's when he realises. No condom. He's not sure why that makes any difference at this stage, he's already gone so far beyond his own boundaries, but he feels sick knowing it, anyway.

He ignores the feeling and concentrates of the push of her body against his.

She's close, he can tell, and suddenly he can't stand it, wants this over and done with as soon as possible. He reaches down to touch her again, feels her thighs tighten in response.

She claws at his back and tries to press their mouths together again. He stopped kissing her a while ago, he's not sure why, didn't think she'd care in any case but the frantic way she tries to get back to his mouth tells him otherwise.

He turns his head away, licks along her collarbone instead, where now she tastes like sweat and sex and nothing much else.

She clenches tight around him and he wonders, idly, if her eyes will turn black as she comes. He doesn't want to know, not really, so he rests his forehead against the slick skin between her breasts and waits for her to finish riding it out before he looks up again. She's flushed and panting, eyes heavy-lidded, and Sam never noticed before that in this light they have a little green in them. He starts moving again, and she grinds her hips down to meet his.

When he comes, he screws his eyes shut; fucks mindlessly up into her and bites his lip to keep from crying out. She says his name, he thinks, voice husky and thick, but it comes to him from somewhere far away and maybe it's something else entirely he hears.

They stay for what seems like a long time, sweat cooling between them, no sound but their breathing and the crackle of the fire. He stares over her shoulder at the flames until his eyes prickle and tear, and when he blinks them clear again, she's staring at him, soft and pitying. Her eyes are brown. He hates her then.

"I'm sorry," she says, and lays a hand on his arm. Her fingers feel cold and clammy now, and his stomach rolls at the touch.

"For what?"

"I'm not him," she says.


End file.
